Sweet Unrest
by PrydainViolet
Summary: Part reflection and part imagining of Sybil and Branson, exploring how their stories both weave and diverge. Begins about a year after season 1. Spoilers through season 3. Story now complete.
1. Chapter 1

A/N: Laura Linney was right. Downton Abbey: worth the wait! For the record, I do not own or profit from the show Downton Abbey, any of its stories or characters. The title of this piece is from a line of the poem Bright Star, by John Keats:

_Awake for ever in a sweet unrest_

* * *

><p>When the first letter arrives, she is startled and disoriented. She holds it out to her father, silently imploring him to make sense of it for her. <em>How is this possible? Explain this to me.<em> Her father brings her outside into the sunlight and walks with her across the grounds, leading her with a hand resting at the base of her neck. "He was a fine young man," he says, and her mind struggles against the concepts of death and honor he tries to explain. "You must prepare yourself, Sybil darling. I'm afraid there will be many more letters like this." She is dry eyed and mute, and spends the rest of the day in a daze.

When the second letter arrives, she begins trailing behind her parents and Edith, drifting between each of them like a dry leaf caught in a breeze; sitting quietly with her mother over needlework until Edith returns from a walk and Sybil hurriedly follows her upstairs as if caught up in her draft. A gust of wind at the front door announces her father and she floats down to greet him, and instead of leaving him in his usual solitude she pulls a book from the shelf of his library and sits in a chair to read near his desk as he works. She feels greedy for them, and reluctant to let them out of her sight. When the third letter brings five new names, Sybil breaks. Unable to hide her tears, she disregards the equally sympathetic and horrified expression on Carson's face and hurries to her mother's room. Nearly upsetting the breakfast tray, Cora pulls Sybil into the crook of her arm and lets her have a good cry. After she calms, Sybil writes a letter begging Mary to come home from London.

The telegram informing them of Mary's return arrives only shortly before Mary's train; she must have left London practically the same hour she received Sybil's message. Sybil happily volunteers to meet Mary at the station with Branson. She tries to convince Edith to come along, but to no avail. In the car, Sybil dwells on the chasm that has opened between Edith and Mary that she cannot bridge. Neither of them will confide in her what the cause is. Sybil never had Edith's knack for sniffing out secrets, and although she suspects that if she openly confronted her sisters they would not be able to hide, she has never worked up the nerve. Whatever it is, it must be bad, and she never feels quite ready to face it. It may be cowardly of her, but there are some things she would rather not know, and some words she would rather leave unsaid.

The long country road stretches before them, and the sun glares uncomfortably onto her face. She props her elbow on the window and leans her head in her hand, closing her eyes. The rhythmic hum of the engine and the gentle shaking of the car grow faint as she lets her mind slip away, floating between memories of happier days in quieter times. The next moment a gloved hand gently shakes her shoulder and she gasps with a start.

"It's only me, m'lady," Branson is leaning into the car, "we've arrived."

"Golly, have I slept the whole way," she asks, even though her bleary eyes and chapped lips answer the question before Branson does. Her mind feels foggy, and she reaches out a hand before stepping down from the car. Branson grips her fingers in his own and a steadying arm hovers behind her shoulders. She stands and straightens, shaking her head and blinking to bring the world back into focus.

"Are you alright, m'lady?" Branson's voice is soft and laced with concern.

"Quite alright, thank you."

"Only, you seem rather cast down lately."

For some unaccountable reason, a latent anger inside of her suddenly rises up and chooses Branson as its target.

"Well, I'm sorry to be such dull company, but I didn't realize I was required to keep you entertained," she snaps in imitation of Mary's best imperious tone, and strides off towards the platform with her shoes striking loudly against the ground. Branson follows her half a pace behind.

"Forgive me, m'lady. I said too much."

"Have you? That's hardly stopped you before."

"Maybe not, but you're upset and I'm sorry for it."

"Why should you be?" She demands, and in the back of her mind a terrified voice begs him not to answer. She stops near the edge of the platform and turns to face him, her chin raised as high as she can manage without straining her neck. He looks down at her, the contours of his mouth and jaw set into lines of frustration. She finds it increasingly difficult to meet his eyes. _Don't look at me that way. You'll get called up and I can't bear it._ She tries to distance herself from him, turning quickly and leaning out over the edge of the platform to see farther down the track. Branson's hand jumps out and catches her elbow, pulling her back a pace before releasing his grip.

"Careful, m'lady," he warns. Sybil opens her mouth to scold him for treating her like a child, but something in his posture reminds her of the day at the count. Just as suddenly as it flared, the anger inside of her is extinguished. She takes a few steps back and looks at her shoes for a moment before speaking again.

"I'd like to apologize, Branson. You didn't deserve that. I don't know what came over me."

"Don't mind it, m'lady," he replies, hand still hovering at waist height as if he's expecting her to make a lunge for the edge of the platform.

"It's just," she begins, but she doesn't know what it is, and simply stands there tongue tied and awkward until the sudden blare of a train whistle makes her jump.

"Oh, she's here," she says with breathless excitement as the train pulls into the platform in a cloud of steam and noise. "Mary will make things right," she continues so softly he can barely hear her. Branson forces an unconvincing smile, and studies her profile as she watches the doors of the train opening.

Mary does make things better, but it becomes clear that all is not right. She dotes on Sybil, but hardly spares a word for Edith and can barely meet her father's eyes. She paces and prowls around Downton like a restless animal wearying of a cage. One evening Sybil sits in her usual place on the edge of the bed watching Mary at her mirror putting on the finishing touches before dinner. To Sybil's eyes there has been a slight change in Mary's appearance. The shimmering brightness that attracts the attention of every eye when she enters a room is altered; instead of sparkling like a jewel she now glints like polished steel. She is still as beautiful as ever, if not more so. Sybil smiles in admiration and wonders vaguely if she could shape her own eyebrows in a graceful arch.

"You look happy, Sybil darling. What are you thinking of?"

"Nothing important. What are you thinking of?"

"Nothing at all," Mary replies in a heavy tone that Sybil interprets as "Matthew." Sybil studies the carpet for a few moments before speaking again.

"You are not happy here. You want to leave Downton and return to London." Mary looks surprised at this turn of the conversation, but gives a resigned sigh that says _there's no use in lying to you_.

"Yes, but don't think I want to leave you."

"I don't think that, but I wish you could be happier at home."

"I have wished that for a long time." Her heart overflowing with sympathy and sadness, Sybil rises and approaches her sister. Standing at her side she regards their reflection in the mirror intently, trying to observe every detail and commit this picture to memory. _We won't always be this way. Even this is ephemeral._ Mary reaches over and adjusts Sybil's necklace, then briefly runs the back of her finger down her cheek. "It can be borne," she says, their eyes meeting in the mirror. "It might not seem that way now, but you will find your way to bear it, I know."

"Are you sure?"

"Quite certain."

"Well, then." They share a closed lip smile, stand a little taller, and go down to dinner.

Mary returns to London and the letters continue to arrive, and for a while Sybil is able to bear it. She develops a routine of walking in the gardens when the bad news comes. It helps to be near things that are beautiful and alive and growing. She becomes adept at turning distress into peace, and sorrow into serenity. She does well this way for months until one morning she reads a letter with a name that already left a mark on her.

_She couldn't control her laugh and when it rang out in the sudden silence, he furrowed his brow and shook his head at her in mock disapproval, his eyes gleaming with mischievous pleasure as she covered her mouth in embarrassment. He needled and teased until she agreed to dance with him, and as he swept her across the floor in his arms, he listened to her opinions (the dreaded opinions Granny continuously insisted she keep to herself), with interest instead of discomfort. When he kissed her hand, she blushed a little and found herself wondering if she was about to fall in love. Nothing had come of it, but then again, there hadn't been time. Something might have come of it. _

She feels ill and rushes away from the table in need of calming solitude, but finds she has no strength left to fight the despair. She turns to the gardens, but peace is elusive. The dead crowd around her, she thinks of handsome faces that smiled at her now cold and white, of arms that held her in a dance now stiff and rotting. Tears still gathering in her eyes, she turns and walks back to the house. She can't carry on like this. She has to do something. She thinks of asking Branson to drive her somewhere, anywhere, as far as they can go – maybe if they drive far enough they can escape this war and despair and death. _Tempting_, she admits. _Impossible_, she knows. _Cowardly_, she chides. No, she can't run from this. But she has to do something.

...

It is an open secret that Lady Sybil is spending her time downstairs. All the servants suddenly find they have some business in the kitchen. They filter through, surreptitiously watching what she does and how she does it. Most give her a wide berth, either out of wariness of her or of the odd smells usually emanating from whatever she is cooking. Mrs. Hughes will check on her with approving nods and encouraging smiles, but maintains a distance to keep up the pretense of secrecy. Mrs. Patmore carries on reasonably well, but struggles to keep her temper and language in check around her odd student. To everyone's surprise, Daisy is the only one who has no discomfort with their guest. She flits around Lady Sybil like a helpful little bird, smiling and chattering happily. When William asks why she can talk to Lady Sybil but can't be within Lady Mary's range of vision without trembling, she gives a little shrug. "She's nice, Lady Sybil."

"Oh, invited you to tea, I suppose" drawls the voice of O'Brian

"She is always smiling and being kind when she don't need to be," Daisy pipes up again with growing courage, "and she helped Gwen, didn't she?"

"That's right, Daisy," chimes Anna, "I'm sure Lady Sybil is glad of your help."

Daisy beams so brightly under Anna's praise that even O'Brian softens a little.

The next morning, O'Brian pauses at Lady Sybil's open door to see the girl seated at her mirror attempting to tie her own hair into a chignon. A scattering of pins caught in loose strands of dark hair littering the table and floor attest to previous failed endeavors. As she watches, Lady Sybil slides a pin into the mass of hair being held in place with her other hand, winces in pain, and then tentatively releases her hold. For a moment the chignon stays in place, but at the slightest movement of her neck the twist unravels and hair spills down her back along with the soft clattering falling pins. Lady Sybil sighs loudly, and O'Brian thinks she hears her mutter "you joke" to the mirror's reflection before knocking on the open door to catch her attention.

"Good morning, O'Brian," says Lady Sybil with perfect politeness, but with a hint of coolness in her tone. O'Brian has caught those grey eyes watching her over the years, and sometimes she has the uneasy feeling that Lady Sybil can guess what she is thinking.

"Good morning, m'lady," O'Brian replies, and then, hesitantly, "do you…would you like me to show you how it's done?"

"Why, yes," says Lady Sybil with mingled caution and surprise, "I would like that. Thank you, O'Brian."

She stands behind the young lady at the mirror and runs her fingers through the long, dark hair, teasing out the remaining pins. _You don't know what you're getting into, you little pet_. She glances in the mirror and, sure enough, those grey eyes are observing her so intently O'Brian feels a chill run up her spine. _Why do you look at me like that? What do you know of me?_

"Why are you doing this? I rather thought you didn't approve."

It takes O'Brian a moment to realize Lady Sybil had actually spoken the words and she didn't just imagine them.

"Just want to help, m'lady." _I have something to atone for._

"Yes, well…that I understand. Thank you, O'Brian."

_Maybe you do understand, unnatural child._

_._

"Good morning, Mr. Branson."

"Good morning, Mrs. Hughes."

"Have you had your breakfast?"

"Not yet, ma'am."

"I'm afraid you'll have to help yourself, Daisy and Mrs. Patmore have their hands full again today."

"I'm sure I can manage, Mrs. Hughes."

He steps through to the kitchen which has the usual look of organized chaos of Mrs. Patmore's work, now with the addition of a corner of undeniable chaos where Sybil stands. There is a dusting of flour up her arms and what appears to be egg splattered on her apron, he even sees an angry welt on her wrist as if she has had a painfully close encounter with the stove top. She is too absorbed in her task to notice him, and he navigates around the kitchen as unobtrusively as he can. It feels strange having her down here, and almost unfair. It's not as if he could wander upstairs and take his lunch at the table with the Crawley family if the fancy struck. But he knows she is not doing this out of a sudden fancy, and he can't help but admire her.

"There, I've done it! Actually, this is rather fun. Shall I do another?" Branson pauses, the familiar thrill rushing through him at the sound of her voice (as well as the equally familiar check: _she's too far above you_), and turns to see Sybil setting aside empty eggshells.

"Yes, m'lady," Daisy encourages, "see if you can do the next with one hand instead of two." When Sybil turns her back to fetch another egg, Daisy's hand darts into the bowl and emerges with a small piece of eggshell clutched in her fingers that she swiftly hides in her apron pocket. Branson sees Mrs. Patmore turn her eyes upward in supplication, as if begging the Almighty to have mercy on her kitchen. "Hold it like this, m'lady, now crack it on the side of the bowl instead of the edge – that's right, now pull it apart with your fingers – that's right!"

"Ah! I did it! Thank you, Daisy!" The little kitchen maid rises up on her toes as if she is about to sprout wings and fly up to the ceiling. Branson stares and smiles in spite of himself. Sybil leans over the bowl to inspect her handiwork. "Oh, dear," she murmurs, "I've left some pieces of shell in there." Daisy, still on her toes, wobbles uncertainly. Branson doesn't know what Daisy expected her to do, but Sybil only reaches into the bowl and pulls out the offending pieces. She wipes her fingers on her apron, and gives Daisy another smile. "Good thing we caught that. Oh dear, I hope there aren't any more pieces I've missed."

"Oh, no, there aren't I'm sure!" Daisy replies nervously.

"You're sure? But, how?"

"I mean…I'm not sure. It wouldn't hurt to check." Sybil couldn't know, but Branson and Mrs. Patmore recognize the tone of guilty fear in Daisy's voice. Mrs. Patmore hands over a fork with a threatening look at Daisy, and Branson ducks out the door with a silent chuckle. Still grinning, he sits at the table and looks up to see Mrs. Hughes regarding him with a keen stare and unmistakable warning in her eyes. _Careful, my lad. _The mental check comes automatically: _she's too far above you. _It doesn't help. He eats his breakfast alone, wondering how many reasons he can find to wander into the kitchen today without showing his hand.

.

As she pulls the cake from the oven, Sybil nearly goes giddy with the rush of heady triumph. _I made this, _she silently proclaims. _This is my work. I created something. Something small and insignificant, but something._ She places it on the table with a little flourish and a sing-song "ta-da!" which promptly turns to a burst of laughter. Absorbed with Daisy and Mrs. Patmore over the cake, Sybil does not recognize how many people share in her moment of joy. She does not see her mother watching from a distance with tears of pride and love for her little woman sparkling in her eyes. She does not see Carson let his severe countenance slip for a moment into tenderness at the sound of her laugh. She does not see Branson, just a few steps away, feigning a casual interest and repeating to himself for the tenth time that day: _she's too far above you._

_..._

The journey from Downton to York is eternal, and yet somehow over in an instant. Sybil is a storm of thoughts and emotions; excitement and determination battling it out with doubt and trepidation. One moment she feels the urge to ask Branson if the hospital is much farther, the next she struggles to keep from shouting that she needs to go home and he should turn the car around _right now._ In the end, it is the streak of Crawley stubbornness that saves her. She said she would do this, everyone is waiting to see how she will fare, and the thought of returning home and admitting failure becomes too horrifying to accept as an option. Eventually, she sees that the only way out of the situation she has put herself in is to go through with it. She _will_ manage away from home, she _will_ complete the course, and she _will_ become a nurse. This resolution carries her through the rest of the journey. She does not waver as they approach York, and is still braced with determination as the hospital looms before them and Branson pulls the car over and kills the engine. She steps down from the car and the small physical effort sets her heart beating excessively fast. Branson takes her luggage and somehow her feet carry her into the courtyard of the hospital. She hears rather than sees Branson follow her, the sounds of his footsteps are familiar and comforting.

When she sees them, the maimed soldiers quietly struggling with their exercises, she feels her stomach drop because now this isn't an idea or a plan, this is something real and painful. She suddenly feels very young, very spoiled, and very naïve. She hesitates, even Branson pauses, and a small voice in her head plaintively moans that she wants to go home. She knows it is too late for that. It only takes a moment for her to find her feet again and carry on towards the open doors of the hospital. Before she reaches the entrance, she stops under an empty arch and turns to Branson. She had planned to take a private moment to say goodbye and thank him for…well, something, but saying goodbye to Branson feels terribly final. She stares at his shoes for a moment, thinking that she'd rather not let him go just yet. When she brings herself to meet his eyes, she is puzzled by his expression. It is somehow grim determination and recklessness wrapped up in one. He has always been a bit of a contradiction. She realizes that he is hesitating, leaning over the edge of some precipice, and then she knows. She does not understand how, but she knows what he is about to say. Of all the things she has been preparing herself to face, _this_ is not one of them.

As he removes his cap and begins to speak the words she does not want to hear, she tries to stop him. _Please don't do this to yourself. Don't do this to us. Don't make me hurt you,_ she wants to tell him, but only succeeds in uncomfortably murmuring his name to no effect. There is no stopping him, and as he talks of hopes and plans and devotion and happiness his words seep into her, and there is a terrible clenching in her chest. Doesn't he understand how frightened she is? What does he expect her to say? How can he bear to say these things out loud, all these things she puts so much effort into not thinking about? The expression on his face is plain as day: _I know you could love me as I love you_. His words leave her speechless and wavering, but only for a moment. She tries to let him down politely and he bristles. She tries to laugh and he reproaches her. He does not make it easy, in fact she finds it impossible to say no. She stands there in painful silence. She can't bear to see his face _(you won't love me),_ and stares at the ground with hands clasped like the demure young lady she was raised to be. _I am doing the right thing_, she tries to comfort herself. A sudden declaration from a chauffeur, no matter how earnest, cannot overthrow a lifetime of rules and Granny and Grantham honor in a moment. _This is the right thing_, she repeats, pretending to feel less miserable than she really is.

"Right," he says, and she begins to think the worst is over. "I won't be there when you return."

"No, don't do that!" Her words tumble out in a rush because the thought of returning home without him sends a terrifying pain shooting through her chest. She doesn't know what he must think of her, but doesn't want him to leave Downton any more than she wants to betray him to her father. She tries to comfort him with her voice, and beseeches him with her eyes to please forgive her. He does not, or perhaps he cannot yet forgive her. Face full of anger, eyes full of pain, he gives a taut nod and turns. As he walks away, Sybil thanks God he does not turn back to see the tears spilling quickly down her cheeks. "Everything will look better in the morning," she whispers, and dries her eyes.

...

Branson is almost surprised when the sun rises the next day, but it does, and again on the day after that, and the day after that. Even though there's more to do than ever before, Downton feels dull and lifeless. Everything is without luster or definition until he thinks of her, missing her so strongly it is like a sharp pain pulling him out of a reverie and putting everything back in miserable focus. He thinks of leaving more than once, but that would put an end to it all, and he isn't ready to give up just yet. He wishes Mr. Bates was still around. He knows he should feel bad about it, and he does, but he is desperately thankful Anna is still at Downton, wonderfully sane, sensible, sweet tempered Anna. It's almost funny the way they were both thrown over on the same day. He always liked her, understood what Mr. Bates saw in her, and would be more shocked and angry at Mr. Bates' treatment of her if he wasn't so distracted by his own wounds. As it is, Branson and Anna strike up a quiet camaraderie. Perhaps drawn to each other by their mutual unhappiness, they begin sitting at meals together, trading sections of newspaper, and eventually offering an open ear or simple words of understanding on the days it seems too much to bear. He tries to be discreet and vague about the girl who rejected him, but Anna is nobody's fool, and he wonders if she knows. He supposes she could betray him, but he doesn't think she will. Gently, each manages to ease the other out of misery. The days begin to run together in a dull haze of normalcy and acceptance. Anna says it is enough, but he doesn't believe her.

...

As Branson drives to collect Lady Sybil from York, he tries to imagine how he will feel; he expects to be angry or betrayed or heartbroken. Instead, he finds he is just relieved to see her again. She is standing by the door with her luggage and a small group of girls in uniform. When she sees him approaching, she turns to say something, and then embraces them one by one. A few brush their hands across their cheeks, but all are smiling. He smiles, too. He parks the car as the nurses wave goodbye one last time before disappearing into the hospital, leaving Sybil alone. He approaches and her eyes go very wide for a few moments. Before he can say or do anything she picks of one of her cases. She reaches for the second one, but Branson beats her to it, nearly knocking his skull against hers in the process. He breathes a nervous apology, she laughs awkwardly. They place the cases in the car in silence, and she opens the door to the back seat before he has a chance to open it for her. He smirks as he climbs into the front.

"Are you surprised to see me, m'lady?"

"I suppose not. I am relieved, actually, that you didn't hand in your notice." Her voice is cautious, but honest.

"Well, that's something at least," he says.

If she heard him, she pretends she did not, but when he meets her eyes in the mirror and ventures a grin she smiles at him, a little smile, but without embarrassment or guile. It's a start, at least.

.

The first time he comes to collect her for dinner, it does not go well. He steps into the hospital and only starts to wonder where to find her when she nearly crashes into him.

"Look out," she yelps, and swerves abruptly to avoid him.

"M'lady," he begins, but she cuts him off.

"Can't stop now, must change my uniform." In the moment she pauses, Branson sees that the front of her apron is covered in vomit. He stands in stunned silence until Mrs. Crawley recognizes him and ushers him towards the back.

"Is Lady Sybil ill?" He asks quietly.

"Oh no, that wasn't her sick I'm afraid," she answers. He suppresses a shudder, remembering the image of a girl with egg down her apron, as bright and lovely then as she is drawn and strained now.

"So she is well?" He presses on, knowing Mrs. Crawley is probably the only one of the family he would dare speak to in this way. "The staff are asking after her, especially Mrs. Patmore. Everyone is a bit worried." It's not a complete lie, but he knows he is pushing things.

"You may tell them not to worry because Nurse Crawley is doing very well indeed. It is a difficult adjustment for anyone, but she is a great help, and I have every confidence in her." She smiles proudly, and Branson nods and mouths "thank you" in return. When Sybil returns in a new uniform, looking and smelling like she's been scrubbed, he tells her of Lady Grantham's request for her presence at dinner.

"I can't possibly go," is her sharp reply, accompanied by a very put upon scoff.

He hates standing in this hospital, he hates that he hardly ever sees her, and he hates when she speaks to him as if he is beneath her. He really can't stop himself from snapping back.

"Is that the message you would like me to deliver to her ladyship? I'm sure she'll be pleased to hear it, especially that little huff at the end." Sybil goes very still, and for half a moment he thinks she might slap him. Instead, she takes a step forward and steadily holds his gaze.

"I can't go home yet, Branson. Do you understand? Not yet, I need time." Her voice is calm, but her tone is pointed, almost pleading. He tries to understand, and with a slight bow, he leaves her be.

...

He moves slowly through the crowd of wounded soldiers and harried nurses, feeling alarmingly conspicuous with his bright uniform and wicker basket. He spots her across the room and carefully makes his way towards her. She looks pale and pure, like she doesn't belong amongst these men and their filth and pain. And yet, she seems suited for it. She is quiet calm and grace, the other nurses listen to her voice with respect, and the wounded men yield to her touch with relief. She is preoccupied, but she talks to him easily, openly, like she used to. He's missed that so badly. He's missed her so badly. He follows her and watches her, drinking in every movement and word. She confides in him, and he knows she is starting to let him back into her life, maybe even making him part of this new life she is creating for herself.

"I can never go back," she says, and he thinks it might be time to try again.


	2. Chapter 2

Sybil spends the morning trying to ignore the obvious: the wounded expressions on her parents' faces, Mrs. Crawley snapping at her sister, Branson staring at her whenever she passes. She does not want to acknowledge the gnawing feeling that she has betrayed her parents by forcing their home into the hands of others; regret is useless, she is sure this is the right course of action. Mrs. Crawley really is starting to sound insufferable, but there is not much she can do about that. As for Branson looking at her like a kicked puppy – no, it is something else, more like he is waiting for something. Watching her and waiting for something she does not have the time or energy to work out. She does a good job ignoring him until she hears his name and almost misses a step. It is Carson's voice, pitched low in an attempt at discretion, but clear and carrying all the same.

"It appears Mr. Branson has been summoned for duty, my lord." She pauses and holds her breath to hear her father's reply.

"It was only a matter of time, I suppose." He sounds regretful, but resigned. The breath she was holding comes out in a rush. Just like that, one letter and he will be gone just like that. Well, if everyone else can be calm about it, so too can she. There are a hundred tasks to complete, a hundred people who need her attention, and not enough hours in the day. She goes about her work as best she can, her thoughts running something like this: _The last of the beds must be made and Branson's been called up. I need to ask Anna where she put those blankets and Branson's been called up. Corporal Lewis is due to have that bandage changed and Branson's been called up. _On and on until her thoughts are so jumbled only one thing remains clear; ignoring the obvious is going to drive her mad.

.

The army does not want Branson and she cannot help smiling and imagining for a delirious moment she could clamber over the hood of the car to throw her arms around his neck and show him just how happy she is. Branson, of course, must be contrary and is only sullen when he should be glad and thankful. She is squinting into the sun and trying to call to mind any piece of information she might have learned in training about heart murmurs when she asks why he is so angry all the time. Before she knows what happened, he is on the other side of the car, standing in front of her, and she realizes she has never really seen him angry before. This is anger, more anger than she has ever seen on a man. She is disconcerted when a memory of her father rises up in her mind, an image of his face when she returned bruised and bloodied from the count. Branson wears this face now; fury and bitter disappointment. At least with her father she was sure she was in the right. It was easy then to feel angry in return. Now, as she tries to summon some indignation of her own to throw back at Branson, all she feels is confusion. She may be in the wrong this time, but she is not sure she deserves to be spoken to this way. Then again, maybe she does. She is stung, but slightly shamed as well. She also feels a little lost, and uneasy with the revelation that she does not know Branson nearly as well as she thought she did.

.

He thought she was different, but she is just like them; glossing over ugly truths with pretty words, speaking lightly of darkness. It is infuriating. He thought she was better than that. He knows she is better than that. She looked shocked at his words and tone, and he wonders if that was the first time anyone, let alone someone in service, dared to speak to her in that way. It is past time someone did. She cannot afford to be naïve, the war is changing things, changing her whole world whether she wants to acknowledge it or not. Besides, he said enough to her to lose his job long ago, so there is no point in holding back now. The anger boiling inside him is almost comforting, because he wouldn't be so angry if he did not love her.

Maybe she does not think he is serious. Not serious about the things he talks about, not serious about her. Well, he will just have to prove how serious he is.

.

Banished to his cottage, Branson paces back and forth, stopping only to kick viciously at a piece of furniture or unleash a string of florid curses. He packs and unpacks his belongings twice, the third time he gives up half way through the process and shoves his open trunk to the floor, leaving everything in a messy heap in the center of the room. More than once he thinks he can still go through with it and find some way to finish what he set out to do, but now the mental image of his name and cause in the papers is clouded by the picture of her face; serene and lovely and _Sybil_. He cannot go through with it, or anything else that would stamp out the chance of a future with her. He drops into bed, cursing himself for a coward. Coward not to fight for his cause. Coward not to fight for her.

In the early hours of the morning, he hears a soft tapping at his door. He answers to find Anna hovering just outside. The corners of her mouth are pinched in a disapproving scowl, but when she speaks, she does not sound angry with him.

"I wouldn't say you're safe yet, but Mr. Carson and Mrs. Hughes seem to have calmed down about the whole thing."

"They're probably worried they'd never find another chauffeur until after the war. Is that all?" She is unimpressed with his sass, but continues.

"I'm sorry I thought you would have killed him, but I'm not sorry I found this," Anna holds out his note addressed to Lady Sybil. He takes it gingerly, but locks eyes with Anna defiantly. She doesn't look away, and when she scolds him, it is not what he expects. "What were you thinking? You'd _never_ have seen her again. I can't speak for her, but if it was me, I know I wouldn't forgive you for that." He is taken aback for a moment, but then gives a resigned sigh and crosses his arms over his chest as he leans against the doorframe.

"Is it nice being right about everything, Miss Smith?"

"Not usually, but I do enjoy it sometimes." She arches one eyebrow at him as she turns away and disappears into the morning mist.

.

One day as she is gathering supplies downstairs, Sybil overhears Mrs. Hughes asking Daisy if the tureen will be ready for dinner tonight.

"Not yet, Mrs. Hughes, I've been scrubbing it and scrubbing it, but I can't get the smell out."

"Oh for pity's sake," sighs Mrs. Hughes, "I ought to take it out of Mr. Branson's pay. Come with me, let's see if I have something in my cupboard that will do the trick."

It was such an odd conversation, she cannot leave it be. That afternoon, as she is leaving the house for the hospital, she stops to talk to Branson as he is waiting by the car. She does not think she is imagining he looks a little flushed. As she approaches him, she tries to smile in a mild, nonchalant way before speaking.

"This might sound like a strange question, but did you ruin one of our tureens?" He looks at her with surprise, and then his mouth twitches like he is holding back a grin.

"That's very possible."

"Why ever for?"

"I was trying ruin the uniform of one of your dinner guests, the tureen was an unfortunate casualty."

She is so shocked, her mouth actually hangs open for a few moments before she speaks again.

"What on earth were you thinking?" Her voice is nearly breathless, at utter contrast with his half-joking tone.

"That he deserved it."

"You would have gone directly to prison! It's a miracle Carson didn't turn you out on the spot!"

"I didn't go through with it, did I?" She cannot believe he can joke about this, not when he was nearly arrested, ruined and barred from Downton forever. Now she can feel her own cheeks growing warm.

"Is that supposed to comfort me?"

"Why are you so bothered about it?" Her face grows so hot she is sure she must be pink.

"Really, Branson, you're being impossible." He starts to smile until he notices her eyes clouding with unshed tears. He leans towards her, his voice now deadly serious.

"Tell me why it upsets you." She is too angry to give him an answer, let alone an honest one.

"No. Just promise me you won't try anything that foolish again."

"I won't promise you that." Her eyes are stinging and her vision begins to swim, but she refuses to blink.

"Then next time you'd better go through with it and get yourself arrested. That's what you want, isn't it?" He leans closer and she takes a step backwards.

"You know what I want." Branson can sense he is on dangerous ground, but this is no time to back down.

"If I thought I did before, I don't know now. How can I?" He winces at her words and the distress in her voice, and lightens his tone when he answers.

"I'll have to remind you sometime." Now completely flustered, Sybil knows she had better retreat before things really get out of hand.

"I'm going to be late." He cannot resist one more jab at her ruffled feathers. He likes knowing he can have this effect on her.

"Would you like me to drive you to the hospital?" She gives him an incredulous look, and wishes she had never accepted those pamphlets from him. Without another word, she turns and walks away.

...

Sybil stops ignoring Branson's gaze and starts meeting his eyes when she catches him staring at her. It is a silent challenge, and neither of them is willing to back down. She thinks about him more than she ought to, and even when she doesn't think about him he is still somehow there in the back of her mind. In the quiet of her room or the peace of the walk from house to hospital his words come back to her, echoing in her ears over and over again. She can feel the wall she built between them tremble, and can sense him sneaking through the cracks. Despite her better judgment, she is drawn to speak to him at every chance, no longer surprised to find her feet carrying her past the garage nearly every day. It is really only a matter of time before someone notices.

The day Mary confronts her, all defenses start to crumble. Secrets she has never said out loud come rushing out of her. She is almost relived to be found out, and half wishes Mary can talk her out of the whole thing. But when Mary does try to make her see sense, it only manages to make things worse because it does not sound like sense anymore. It sounds wrong and shameful and she feels herself growing angry and frustrated. Sybil wonders if Mary believes her when she promises not to do anything foolish, because she does not quite believe it herself.

When she visits Branson later that evening, she is ready for an argument about telling the secret to Mary. She is not ready for the argument they actually have, an argument forcing her to acknowledge the fact that she does think about him and the possibility of a future together, grim as it is. He smiles and she tries to make him understand the weight of what he is asking from her, how very cruel the situation is and how he is really getting ahead of himself in the first place. The smile drops from his face and his hackles rise. Growing up with two older sisters taught her to notice when the wind changes and a row is about to take an ugly turn, and she tries to raise her guard. She is prepared to hear accusations about her family or her pride, but she is not prepared to hear him insult her work. She feels her body actually flinch at his words, their meaning lashes against her like a blow. _What work?_ It haunts her for days. He chose those words because he does not know her nearly as well as he claims to, or because he does know her and his intention was to wound. She is not sure which is worse.

She tries to go back to ignoring him, but she cannot. She is always aware that he is watching her, and waiting.

...

She can sense it creeping up on her. She tries to deny it, but it is there, stealing over her, carving away at her body and mind: exhaustion. Every day she wakes feeling a bit weaker, her head throbbing when she lifts it from the pillow, her legs aching as soon as she stands. The new muscles in her arms and shoulders turn into uncomfortable lumps, and she starts to wrap a layer of bandage around her feet every morning to keep the blisters from breaking open inside her shoes. She knows she has no right to complain or feel sorry for herself, but some days she is so tired, so devastatingly tired she feels as if she is losing control, and wonders how much more she can bear.

.

Sybil is gently shaken awake. Edith's face is hovering above her illuminated only by candlelight. _No_, she wants to plead, _not this_, but Anna is wrapping a dressing gown around her shoulders and there is nothing to do but wordlessly follow her sister to Mary's room. When they enter, Mary is already sitting up in bed nestled in a pile of blankets.

"Matthew," she says with certainty.

"We don't know yet," Edith replies in a firm voice. As Anna draws back the covers, Mary reaches out her hands. Edith takes one, Sybil grasps the other and they pull her out of bed. The three of them stand together for a moment, joined by their clasped hands. Without thinking, Sybil starts to rub warmth back into Mary's icy fingers, and almost misses Edith's softly spoken words, "Still pulling together." Picking up the candle, Anna leads the way downstairs and the sisters follow, pale and quiet as three ghosts.

When the news breaks upon them, _Matthew wounded_, Sybil feels as young and helpless as she did at the beginning of the war. Edith has to pull on her wrist to lead her out of the room as if she is a wayward child. As they walk past the staff, she finds herself looking for Branson's face in the small crowd. Of course he is not there, he does not sleep in the house, but she wishes she could see him. She wants to tell him Matthew is injured and she can hardly believe it because she really thought he could make it through this war alive - he was so clever about everything, and so brave. Branson will remember that day at the count and how Matthew tried to protect her, coming to her rescue when she was a foolish girl who believed she was immune to consequence. He will understand why she has to be at the hospital when Matthew arrives. Halfway up the stairs she remembers she cannot speak to Branson anymore without the two of them breaking into some kind of quarrel, and he will not understand why she will need to be at the hospital because he does not think her nurse's training has any worth. Her shoulders slump a little, and she feels as if she could happily lie down on the floor of the hallway and sleep for the next five years. Let the world get on without her for a while. Let Branson find someone else to quarrel with.

She does not realize she is lingering at the top of the stairs until she feels a hand on her back. It is Edith, and before she nearly collapses onto her sister's neck she sees Mary arriving at the top of the stairs as well, so the second pair of arms Sybil feels circling her shoulders must belong to her. They move like some odd six-legged creature into Mary's room. She hears Edith's voice suggesting they get some sleep, but Sybil does not have enough strength to relinquish her hold and Mary's voice replies that the darling might as well sleep here. War does make strange bedfellows. For the first time since they slept in the nursery, they all three huddle together and pull the covers up past their chins. Sybil peacefully drifts off to sleep while curled against Edith's back, feeling Mary stroking her cold fingers across her brow and dropping silent tears into her hair. They are safe and warm for a few hours, but in the morning they rise and stride back out into the cold, uncertain world.

.

Sybil is never more grateful for her training than when Matthew is brought to the hospital. _This is nothing you haven't seen before. This is nothing you haven't seen before_, she repeats to herself over and over until she cannot tell if she is not saying it out loud. Cousin Matthew is torn to shreds. Her own stomach churning, she looks over to make sure Mary is still standing before leaning over him and gently calling his name. He looks surprisingly small. Sybil used to fancy there was something of the glint of shining armor about him. It was not just in the way he wore his uniform, to her there seemed to be always something heroic in his manner and the way he carried himself, even when he was a lawyer instead of a soldier. That glint is gone now, replaced with pallor and defeat. Sybil asks for a screen and when Mary returns with water and towels she tries to warn her away again, but her sister will not be moved from Matthew's side. The presence of the "spinal injury" tag is making Sybil so anxious she decides to cut off his clothes and bathe him with the least amount of movement possible. Taking up the scissors, she recognizes the surge of nervousness coursing through her body and allows it drown everything else from her mind and sharpen her focus to the task at hand. She has learned how to harness this strange energy, and knows she works best in this state. Her senses are heightened, her hands are steadier, even her thoughts seem to form faster. She cuts the fabric quickly and efficiently, and as she peels the strips of cloth away from his skin she hears Mary give a faint gasp.

"Most of this is just dried blood, Mary. It will wash away. See?" Sybil cleans the mess of blood and puss that has accumulated in the hollow at the base of his throat as she speaks. When there is no response, she looks up to find her sister staring, not at Matthew, but at her.

"Mary? Are you still here?"

"Yes, of course." Mary looks as if she is about to say something else, but the next moment turns her gaze back to Matthew. Sybil can see silent pain in every inch of her sister's face. Her heart breaks a little for Mary, for Matthew, and for the once bright future they used to share, but she does not stop tending to her new patient. This is no time to indulge in broken hearts, and regret is useless.

.

Walking across the grounds, Sybil contemplates where the past few days rank among the worst moments of her life. Surely, they are somewhere near the top of the list. Her feet turn towards the garage and she does not even try to resist. Some sort of verbal spar is inevitable, but she really must see him. She will even welcome a shouting match if only to be reassured that he at least is whole and healthy instead of maimed or dying. She peers around the door and he is so familiar, perched on the side of the car with his newspaper, it is soothing just to look at him. And now she is looking, she cannot help but notice how very beautiful he is. He could surely have his pick of pretty sweethearts. Why did he ever set his heart on her? Perhaps he likes the game; the greater the challenge, the more enjoyable the hunt. Perhaps this is all part of some long-sighted scheme to undermine the integrity of her family and eventually destabilize the entire English aristocracy. Or perhaps…perhaps he loves her above all else. What other reason has kept him at Downton all this time? She draws near him as they talk. He is contrary, as she expected him to be. They argue, as she expected they would. She starts to walk away and he grasps her waist to stop her, and she did not expect how his hand against her skirt could send her heart lurching into her throat. She can still feel the pressure of his fingers even after he removes them, and she is looking at him again and he really is very beautiful and perhaps he loves her above all else. She is not even sure if she likes him but she is sure he is only a breath away and the slightest movement would meet her lips to his and she could kiss him right now this very moment – but she will not. She cannot.

She is weary and heartsick, and dangerously close to capitulation.


	3. Chapter 3

Sybil thought everything would be different after the war. She certainly feels different, but the world around her seems to be resisting change. The soldiers, beds and nurses begin to trickle out of the house. Eventually the servants move furniture back to where it was before, meals are served as they were before, she even begins to dress as she did before. She goes on like this for a while, following her family's lead, setting everything back to rights, just the way it was _before_. Then one morning she wakes with an odd feeling, like realizing you took a wrong turn miles ago and have been walking in the wrong direction for hours. She does not want everything to be like it was before; the war did happen, and she will not ignore that fact. The world has changed, and she will change along with it. She will learn from the mistakes of others. She will not wait until it is too late. Sybil has her own battles to fight now. Her thoughts of Branson transform from vague musings to actual plans. The temptation of a new life, the temptation of him, they pull and pull at her until she can almost feel them wrapped around her heart like a rope that tightens irresistibly and draws her step by step to his door. She knows he will be waiting, still waiting after all this time, and for that alone she thinks she could love him always.

.

Kissing is a strange business at first, but after a few awkward tries it becomes rather wonderful. She certainly did not expect to feel kissing in her toes, but somehow she does, as well as at the ends of her fingertips and everywhere in between. Now sparking with flames, now soft and weightless, she goes hot and cold beneath his touch and wonders vaguely if she's coming down with fever. She has to work hard to concentrate as he begins telling her the plan between kisses. They are going to run away and elope (he seems quite talented at this). She is going to sneak out of the house, he will be waiting for her (has he had much practice kissing-), and they are going to leave together and get married (or is it some kind of natural gift?), return to Downton to inform her family (she doesn't really care), and then go to Ireland as husband and wife (so long as he keeps kissing her like that). Eventually she pulls away from him because she needs a clear head to make sense of his words and the sinking feeling in the pit of her stomach.

"We're going to run away."

"Yes."

"We're going to elope in secret and then leave Downton."

"Yes."

"My family will be furious."

"That is most likely, yes."

"I might never see them again."

"No, they'll come round eventually."

"And you really mean to marry me, honestly."

"Yes."

He leans towards her again, but she resists, pushing gently with her hands on his shoulders and stares into his face, studying him curiously like he is a lesson in a schoolbook until he breaks the silence between them.

"Are you scared?"

"Yes." _You have no idea._

"Do you want to marry me?"

"Yes." _I think so._

"Do you love me?"

"Yes." _Yes._

"We're going to be alright, Sybil. You and me, we'll make it. You trust me, don't you?"

"Yes, I do. You may kiss me some more now." _What am I doing?_

_._

He told her not to do it, but she writes them a note. Her hand trembles as she presses pen to paper, searching for the right words to convince her family she loves them and will always love them despite what they may think of her actions. It gnaws at her, the secrecy, the sneaking; she hates it, but she loves him, so what can she do?

Escaping from the house is almost fun, like they are playing a game or acting out an exciting scene in a play. The car ride is significantly less fun because now she has plenty of time to think about how it is certainly not a game that she is leaving her parents and her sisters and her grandmother and how angry and hurt they will be. She is hurting them, they have done nothing but love her and she is hurting them. Worry and guilt begin growing in her until she is nearly overwhelmed with anxiety. She says she is tired so she can lean her head on Tom's shoulder, because being close to him makes her feel less miserable. The drive is a trial in facing her own thoughts, entering the hotel and taking a room is an ordeal in facing the thoughts of others. She wants nothing more than to cover her face and die of embarrassment when they walk inside, and when the man behind the desk hands over a key (she does not think she is imagining that knowing gleam in his eye), she would be perfectly happy if the earth opened up and swallowed her whole. She frets about it all the way up the stairs, and does not even notice that she is alone in a hotel room with Branson until he speaks.

"Don't worry about him, Sybil. We'll be married tomorrow, it doesn't matter."

"What?" She is having trouble making sense of anything, all she can think about is how fast her heart is beating.

"The cheeky blighter at the desk, I know he upset you, but you don't need to worry about what he thinks."

"No, I suppose not." The fact that she is alone in a hotel room with a man suddenly becomes a very stark reality and her heart beats even faster. _What am I doing? What am I doing? What am I doing? _

"I said the room isn't bad at all. I thought it might be a bit worn, but it's actually quite nice."

"What?"

"Sybil?"

"What am I doing?"

"You're running away with me, and we're going to be married tomorrow."

"Right, yes. Well, burning bridges, here we are." He laughs at that and she tries to smile and laugh with him but she cannot seem to move at all. In fact, she has not stirred from her place just inside the door since they entered the room. She stays rooted to the spot as he sets down their luggage and begins wandering curiously through the room, opening and closing the wardrobe doors. When he takes off his jacket she thinks he might actually hear her heart because now it is beating so fast her chest aches and he suddenly looks at her. He sees her standing there stiff as a board, realizes she hasn't moved at all, notices her eyes are about twice their normal size.

"Well," he says, "I've certainly had a long day, making off with the fair maiden and fleeing the castle fortress, and as I'm going to be married tomorrow I think I should get some rest." Without another word or look, he sits in the chair near the bed, pulls up his jacket like a blanket, stretches out his legs, and dims the light. Full minutes go by as he sits in the chair and she stands still by the door. Finally, Sybil unbuttons her coat and sets it aside. Her hat follows, but her shoes stay on as turns off the light and climbs onto the bed. She lies on her back until she hears his breathing deepen and she thinks he is asleep. She turns on her side and stares at the lines of his profile as her eyes adjust to the dark. _Husband_. She repeats the word over and over in her mind until the syllables sound strange and foreign. She does not know how much time passes, but she is still staring at him when he opens his eyes. She smiles, and whispers, "Thank you."

"I love you, Sybil, so much."

"I'm going to marry you, Tom Branson."

"Good. Now, try and get some sleep."

She turns over, but can't manage to even close her eyes, let alone sleep. She does not think Branson sleeps either, because when their door bursts open they both leap to their feet.

After the initial shock, she feels something resembling relief. She wants to be with him, she really does, but it was wrong what they were doing. She was wrong to sneak away from her family. She is not ashamed of marrying Tom, and she is going to prove it. As she starts to follow her sisters, he looks at her like she is breaking his heart. She kisses his cheek, like she is sealing a promise. _I'm going to marry you, Tom Branson, just you wait and see._

_._

Oddly enough, in facing down her family she feels more determined than ever. Except for a sudden moment of worry that the shock might literally kill her grandmother, Sybil feels more confident of her decision with every moment. Every angry exchange only convinces her further that she is taking the right path and her family being wrongly stubborn. She wants to move forward, and they still want things back the way they were before. She just wishes she could make them understand, because she does not want to lose them. It is a battle she is more than willing to fight, but she has to fight it so long, much longer than the anticipated. By the time her father and Gran corner her, making threat after threat, she feels tired, so tired her head is throbbing and it's a struggle to keep her feet. She hates this, it seems like she could say the same thing over and over and no one would actually hear her, as if she's speaking a different language. It is the same argument, going round and round in circles until she can stand it no longer. She will make them hear her if she has to scream, and then she does the previously unthinkable and raises her voice to her grandmother.

"I'LL NOT GIVE HIM UP!" As soon as the words leave her mouth, she knows them to be true with every fiber of her being, knows without hesitation that she will never give him up. Now she feels grateful her family has put her though this test, because she has never been so sure of anything in her life. She will not give up Tom Branson, not ever, no matter the cost, and if her family loves her as much as she loves them, they _will_ come round eventually. But she does not want to wait any longer, and she has made him wait so long, _so long_, she does not know how he can stand it. But she can make it up to him. She will make it up to him. In fact, she is looking forward to making it up to him as soon as possible.

.

The note she sent asked him to meet her at Downton, but not until she is wandering around the grounds does she realize she failed to specify where in Downton exactly. She decides to head towards to car sheds, and after a few steps must restrain herself from running towards him when she sees his approaching silhouette.

"Tom?"

"Sybil, what is it? Are you alright? They've been saying-"

"Lavinia is dead. Spanish Influenza. We thought she was going to pull through, she didn't even seem that ill but one minute she was fine and the next she was dead and Matthew-" her words choke in her throat and before she can swallow them back she is overcome by a rush of tears. Dropping her head, she sobs into the palms of her hands. She hears Tom moving towards her and hastily trips back three steps. "No! It might be on me, I could be contagious. Don't come any closer."

"If that's the case, so be it. We're going to be married, and you're not going to have anything I don't have." This only makes Sybil cry harder, but she does not resist as Tom steps forward again and gathers her to his chest.

"I thought the war was over, but it isn't. I thought I could be stronger than I was before, but I'm not."

"Don't mind it now. We're going to get away, you and me. We're going to make a new life. Make a new world." He holds her tighter, and her tears stop as suddenly as they began as she remembers what she really meant to tell him.

"Matthew and Lavinia, they never had the chance to be together, not really. I don't want that to be us. I don't want to wait anymore. Tom, will you still take me to Ireland?"

"I've been waiting for the chance."

"Let's go. I'm through arguing with my family, I've said all I can possibly say. I'd like to say goodbye to Lavinia, but as soon as we can after the funeral, let's just go." In reply, he cups her face in his hands and kisses away her tears.

.

Sometimes you pick your own battles, but sometimes the battles pick you. Some joys are unexpected, but most joys are hard won. As they walk through the churchyard, her hand clasped tightly in his, Branson thinks he should be feeling like journey is over, the quest is won, the treasure found. If this was a fairy tale it would probably be the end, but as she smiles up at him and he steals a kiss, he knows it is nothing of the sort.

"This is only the beginning. Just you wait and see, Sybil Crawley, it's only the beginning of our chance."


	4. Chapter 4

A/N: This is just my little way of saying goodbye to a character I loved. If you don't want to revisit that sad episode, sit out this one.

* * *

><p>It came sooner than she thought it would.<p>

Sybil knew it would be difficult and there would be pain, but she had rather hoped there would be something beautiful and noble about labor. If there is any beauty, Sybil can't see it, in fact she can barely see anything. Faces and images swim in and out of her vision. She hears voices no one else seems to hear. The doctors keep looking at her and touching her and she wants to cry from embarrassment. And the _pain_. She never knew what pain was until now. It comes in waves that swallow everything and leave her shuddering, sweating and disoriented. They crash over her again and again until she can barely remember her own name. She looses track of time - minutes become confused with hours. She does not know how long she has been in labor, or if it will ever end. Voices (the ones she is almost sure are real) grow louder and tell her to push. Her body somehow obeys and then erupts in an agony that rips and tears until she screams for mercy. There is so much blood she fears she is dying, and then there is only darkness.

Tom calls her name and she wakes. He kisses her lips and then presses something into her arms. She looks down at a baby. Her baby. Their baby. It's such a small little bundle of life. It doesn't seem possible.

"It's a girl, Sybil." Tom kisses her.

"We have a daughter?" She kisses Tom.

"Yes, my darling." More kisses. The baby is so beautiful, so pink and warm, she even smells sweet. She makes a little cough and gurgle, and Sybil thinks her heart might break from happiness. She is still struggling to think straight, but she makes sure her mother and sisters all take turns to hold and kiss the baby. Everyone is crying. Everyone is happy. She does not think anyone has ever been so full of love as she is now. When she reaches out her hands Tom brings their baby back to her. She kisses them both and sends up a silent prayer of thanks. Sybil nestles her daughter in her arms, content to gaze at her until she feels her own eyelids growing heavy and her arms weakening. She knows she must sleep soon.

...

Sybil is wrenched into consciousness by the pain searing through her head. Her body is too tired and weak, she can do nothing but curl up and cry, sobbing for release from this unbearable pressure. Tom appears and grabs her hands, she stops crying but the pain in her head is getting worse. She wants to tell him something but she can't remember, she can't think, what is happening? The doctor is touching her and she doesn't like it and starts to cry again because she doesn't know what else to do and it hurts so badly. Something is wrong and she wants her mother. Where is her baby? Why is Tom yelling? She is frightened. There are too many voices, too many hands on her body and she needs to do something to release the pressure inside her head, but it keeps growing and growing - get it out _get it out!_ The voices are getting louder _make them stop_ and her lungs are squeezing desperately for air and she didn't think she could bear any more pain but it _hurts_ and there is no air and she is terrified and thinks of Patrick drowning in the cold dark ocean.

Patrick is handing her a chocolate wrapped in pink foil. Carson is lifting her to his shoulder so she can place an ornament on the Christmas tree. Gwen got the job, she did it. Safe with Edith under a rose bush as the governess calls their names. Tom kissing the nape of her neck after she cut her hair. Sliding off the saddle and into her father's outstretched arms after her first ride. Baking a cake for her mother. There is no air, just agony everywhere, everywhere, everywhere, but Mary is wearing a wedding dress and walking to Matthew. Tom is holding her hand at the garden party and she suddenly feels shy. She is warm and happy, falling asleep in Granny's lap. Her mother is singing a lullaby, pressing a finger-kiss to her mouth. Tom is calling for her. Her baby, oh, her beautiful perfect baby. Tom and the baby. She loves them.

She loves them.

The pain fades until there is nothing but light.

She is free.


	5. Chapter 5

A/N: I just couldn't leave this without more of a conclusion. Thanks to all you readers who stuck with it, even through the sad parts. -PV

* * *

><p>It is too painful for both of them. Neither seeks out their first grandchild, each too distraught over the loss of their last daughter. When she is in their presence, Cora smiles gently and Robert tries to ignore her. Neither reaches out to hold her, or even to touch her. Both are still trying to understand how they lost Sybil, how she somehow got away from them. Something went wrong, and it needs to be understood before they can allow this baby close to their broken hearts.<p>

...

The first time she is brought downstairs, the flutter of activity hushes almost in an instant. They all stare at the little bundle in Nanny's arms, unsure of what to say or feel. Mrs. Patmore stares unabashedly throughout her entire conversation with Nanny, and her disparaging comment that she thinks she knows what to feed a baby, thank you very much, lacks any real bite. As Nanny turns to leave Anna steps up, nearly breathless.

"Oh, please, please may I hold her? Just for a minute?" Nanny looks uncertain until Mrs. Hughes softly intones, "It's quite alright," from the doorway. Anna sighs with pleasure as the baby is set in her outstretched arms. She smiles and coos, gently rubbing her thumb over the baby's stomach. She walks slowly to Thomas and stands by his side, leaning in closely. She whispers something to him no one else can hear, and then Thomas reaches up with his good hand to brush the baby's cheek lightly with the back of one finger. For once his smile is not like ice, but like sunlight.

...

She turned blue. Matthew saw no shortage of horrors in the war. He was still plagued with nightmares of battles and trenches and hospitals. He saw things he could never forget, that will haunt him forever. He has seen death, he has seen hell. But despite that, he was not prepared to see Sybil turn blue. She was screaming and writhing in bed as he stood by helplessly. He shouted at doctors and silently prayed to whatever god he still believed in, but it was no good. A room full of people all powerless to save an innocent girl from dying in her own home. He grasped her bedpost as if he could somehow keep her life in his grip and began to weep quietly. The moment she stopped screaming, he knew there was no hope. Her whole body went rigid and all color drained from her skin until she was blue and unquestionably dead. He dreams of that frequently, sometimes when he is awake. Usually he dreams it as it happened, but sometimes he dreams of the count. In these dreams he goes rushing to her rescue, pushing and fighting his way to her and then kneeling at her side, but when he tries to raise her up she is stiff and cold, a drained corpse. Sometimes he wakes in the middle of the night to find he has grasped Mary's wrist in his hand, feeling her pulse jumping under his palm. He thinks this is why he likes it when the baby squalls.

She is mostly a quiet little thing, absorbing the world around her with wide, dark eyes. But sometimes her soft hiccupping noises or squeals escalate into great, shrieking cries that echo throughout the house. One day, the baby descends into one of her screaming fits in Mary's arms. Panicked at the thought that she might need something urgently, Mary practically drops the baby in his hands as she bustles out the door in search of Nanny. Matthew looks down in wonder at the mighty noise erupting from such a tiny body and finds himself smiling. It is the sound of life. He raises her up and presses the little red face against his cheek, feeling its heat and tears against his skin. Sybil is pink and flailing, and very much alive.

...

It is impossible for Mary to resist. The weight of her, the sound of her steady little breaths, her impossibly soft skin and glistening pink mouth. Mary is smitten. When she holds her niece, she feels calm and quiet and wants for nothing more than to gaze at her, to love her, and to love her own sweet sister. Mary can still see her when she looks into the baby's eyes, and thinks she understands why Sybil believed in God. And she knows, she _knows_ that one day she will have a child of her own. She has not done much in her life that is worthy, but she can do this; she can cherish Sybil's child and Matthew's child. She can raise them and love them, and then she will deserve to be proud of something.

...

The first night he dreams of empty rooms and empty houses, of open fields and vacant glens. She is never there in his dreams. When he wakes, she is never there in his bed. Tom no longer weeps. He hasn't the strength for tears. He just lies waking in the dark, waiting without hope. The baby cries. He stands over the cradle looking down at it, wanting to press it tightly to his body, and not wanting to touch it ever again. The baby settles and they stare at each other for a long time. He loves her, and it hurts.

"Your mother is dead," he whispers. She looks up like she loves him, and it hurts more. He reaches down to gather her in his arms, and the pain of it burns him. He looks into her eyes and sees her, sees _her_, looking back. He wonders if he will ever be able to put her down again. He will not let her go, not ever. There is a loud rushing in his ears and his cheeks are wet, but he does not know why. He bends to kiss her twice, once for him and once for her mother.

"Your mother loved you. She loved me, too," he adds. This much he knows, and the hurt of it is beautiful.


End file.
